I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds. Just then—I was nervous.
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